The thought of Guðrún brought him out in a cold sweat. Under what conditions was she being held? How was she feeling? Was she frightened? Had she been hurt? Mental images flashed through his mind. He had no idea where they came from – maybe from crime movies or news items about kidnappings. He visualised Guðrún in manacles on a filthy, cold floor, and then on an unmade bed with a cord of some kind around her neck. But the worst was the thought of her shut in a tiny, windowless room. In his mind the room wasn’t dirty and everything necessary was there – even a television; but this was the worst thing he could imagine for Guðrún. She suffered from claustrophobia, to the extent that getting in a lift was a challenge.

  He still had his phone in his hand and for some reason he selected Guðrún’s number from the memory. Flosi heard her phone ring out in the hall, where it had been when he had come home. He tried to stand up, but it felt as if the sofa dragged him back down. It was a cruel irony that he now sat and longed for her in precisely the spot that had irritated him so much because she preferred it to him in the evenings. He missed her so much that it was painful – he missed her so desperately much. What wouldn’t he give to have Guðrún snoring on the sofa this evening, and every evening, while he fought his usual battle with the remote as he searched for something worth watching.

  He had shed all the tears he had when he finally heard the front door open and Sara Sól’s voice from the hall.

  ‘Dad!’

  He tried to call out to her that he was in the living room, but the sound he made was more like the howl of a wounded beast. Sara Sól came into the room and stared at him.

  ‘Dad, what’s the matter?’

  4

  The house was one of the smartest on Hraunbrún. It wasn’t immediately visible from the street, hidden away along a drive leading off from a cul-de-sac that three detached houses shared. The appearance of the house itself was magnificent, as if it had been designed with wonderful events in mind, the best dinner parties, dances, visits from illustrious guests. There was nothing whatever about the place that was everyday. There were no garden tools by the garage, no broom left handy by the door, to sweep away the leaves that were piling up along the street and the pavements in shades of russet, and there was no shelter for bins anywhere to be seen.

  The drive was paved, as was the pathway that curved to the front door. On each side of the path were outdoor lights, spaced a metre or so apart, and a thick birch hedge, clipped into neat domes that showed off their red-brown autumn foliage.

  Áróra rang the bell, and it occurred to her that she should have gone home first to get changed, but the thought was forgotten as soon as the man opened the door. His face was so wracked with desperation that she doubted he would notice minor details, such as her faded jeans and windcheater.

  ‘You’re Flosi?’ she asked, extending a hand. His palm was sweaty and she could feel the faint trembling as he took her hand and squeezed it. ‘My name’s Áróra. I’ve been sent by Michael, your accountant in Edinburgh.’

  She followed Flosi inside, through the entrance lobby and a spacious hallway where stairs led to the upper floor and a whole row of mirror-fronted cupboards stretched all the way to the ceiling. In the kitchen Flosi pointed at the floor where a broken glass and some vegetables lay, and then snatched up a printed sheet of paper from the kitchen worktop and handed it to her.

  ‘It was like this when I came home yesterday. And this letter was here on the table. So I called Michael to ask him to make the money available and … and … well.’

  His words petered out and he looked helplessly at Áróra.

  ‘If that’s what it comes to, then I’ll be the one to travel to the UK and fetch your money,’ she said.

  Flosi nodded, and for a moment Áróra thought he was going to crumple, but he coughed and rolled his shoulders as if holding himself back.

  ‘Michael also asked me to give you what support I can, considering you don’t want to go to the police. He felt that you shouldn’t be dealing with kidnappers alone,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Yes. Thank you, thanks,’ Flosi muttered. ‘To be honest, I don’t know where to turn. But I need to have the money ready when they get in touch. I can’t wait for days on end for a bank transfer and all the bother that goes with it. I’ll have to have the right amount ready. So they’ll release Guðrún.’

  Saying his wife’s name out loud seemed to upset the delicate equilibrium he had fought so hard to maintain since Áróra had been here, and tears trickled from both eyes and down his cheeks. He sniffed hard, reached for a kitchen roll, pulled off a sheet and wiped his face.

  ‘It’s unbearable, not knowing how she is, whether they are treating her well, if she’s frightened.’

  Áróra reached out and placed an encouraging hand on his arm.

  ‘Considering there’s a ransom demand, I think you can be confident that they value Guðrún highly.’ She glanced again at the letter. ‘They seem to think she’s worth two million euros. So that means they must be looking after her well.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Flosi said, as if snatching in desperation at the hope this thought offered. ‘Of course you’re right.’

  Áróra scanned the note again, and then realised what it was about the ransom demand that had been troubling her.

  ‘It’s strange that they ask for euros, and not krónur,’ she said. ‘Who would know that you have money in an overseas account?’

  Flosi stretched to take the note, looking at it as if he was seeing it properly for the first time, although he must have read it a hundred times since finding it on the kitchen table.

  ‘I suppose it’s one of those foreign crime gangs we keep seeing on the news? They must demand money that doesn’t need to be changed.’

  He shrugged as he spoke, handing the note back to her. She placed it on the kitchen table where he said he had found it, and took a picture of it with her phone. It bugged her that Flosi hadn’t answered her question about who could have knowledge of his overseas accounts, and she wondered if he was simply too upset to think straight, or if he had purposefully dodged the question.

  Whichever it was, it confirmed her feeling that this man needed more help than she could provide.

  5

  This was a tall, muscular woman Michael had sent him. Flosi felt she exuded a calming influence that he wasn’t able to define. Maybe it was simply the relief at being able to discuss things with someone who might be able to help him – at sharing the burden of all this with someone.

  Once the woman had been through the living room and the kitchen, checking behind paintings and pictures, climbing on chairs, examining the light fittings to check for surveillance equipment, she sat down and looked intently into his eyes.

  ‘I know a cop who I’m sure would be prepared to meet and give us advice,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t have to tell him who you are, you’d just have to say you know me and tell him about the situation.’

  ‘But the letter said that they would kill Guðrún if I go to the police,’ Flosi said. ‘I can’t take the risk. I can’t take any chances with Guðrún’s safety.’

  Despite his clouded thinking, this one thing remained clear in his mind. He would do nothing that could risk Guðrún’s life. He would do everything he could to bring her back safe and well.

  He smiled bitterly as he recalled how for months he had felt that Guðrún had him caught in a rut, a day-to-day routine that he had longed to change – break up, re-evaluate, maybe even reject outright. But now circumstances had quite literally swept his feet from under him and he would give anything to be looking forward to one of those mundane evenings: Guðrún dozing off on the sofa after dinner, two glasses of white wine, him sitting on his own, trying to fix his attention on the television screen. Now he could see that loneliness wasn’t the most awful thing that could happen. The terror that had him in its grasp right now was worse – much, much worse.

  ‘Let’s try and put aside the anxiety you must be experiencing now,’ Áróra said. ‘It’s logical to think that they wouldn’t rush to kill a woman they reckon is worth two million euros.’

  ‘But that risk isn’t worth taking,’ Flosi replied. ‘If they find out that I’ve been in touch with the police, then I’ve broken one of the conditions. And I couldn’t live with myself if…’

  He was unable to finish his sentence as the misery that had been with him since he woke up again forced its way to the surface and stifled his words before they could be spoken.

  ‘If I ask the cop I know to wear plain clothes and meet us at a coffee shop, would you be prepared to come? We’d have a chance to get his advice, and there’d be no obligation and nothing to say that you’ve approached the police.’

  ‘How does that work?’ Flosi said when he finally managed to force out a few words. ‘Wouldn’t the police force their way in and take over? Then the kidnappers would see all the police cars outside, and Guðrún’s days would be numbered.’ And he realised that this was what he feared more than anything: the complete loss of control, being rendered powerless. That was exactly what he had never been. He had managed his life with determination; some might even say he’d been ruthless in his approach. And he had never curled up and waited to see what would happen next. He was too strong for that, too determined.

  ‘It could be worth finding out if this is something the police are familiar with. Maybe you’re just one of a bunch of people in the same situation.’

  This hadn’t occurred to him. Perhaps he was just one of many who had been attacked like this. He had seen on the news that criminal gangs came and went in waves, were a plague for a short while, and then disappeared until another one came along. There had been the contractor swindle, in which skilled workers were offered at a cheap rate, and as soon as an advance payment had been made, they vanished. Or there were the computer hackers who conned people into downloading software that gave the thieves access to their bank accounts. But there hadn’t been a word about kidnappings in the news. Maybe this was just the latest development. He could be just one victim of some ruthless group that the police were about to nab.

  Sara Sól brought a cup of steaming tea into the living room to him. She placed a coaster beneath the cup as she put it on the oak table and laid a comforting hand on her father’s shoulder.

  ‘Dad and I don’t want to take any risks,’ she said to Áróra. ‘Probably the best thing would be for you to go right away to the accountant to fetch the money so that it’s ready when the kidnappers make contact.’

  Flosi nodded and patted the back of his daughter’s hand. She was his greatest joy and support. She was twenty-two and next year would graduate with a degree in business studies, and then he would appoint her to manage part of the company. She deserved it. She was a hard worker and had always been good to her father, although that behaviour hadn’t extended to Guðrún. To be blunt, she had often been downright unpleasant to Guðrún. But that was the way relationships with a step parent often panned out – marred by suspicion and jealousy. But she seemed to have the same outlook on all this as he did. Something as shocking as this often served to clarify things, decluttering emotions. Sara Sól appeared to be as devastated as he was.

  6

  Áróra’s name appearing on the screen was such a surprise that Daníel almost dropped his phone. It had been a long time since she had last called. If he recalled correctly, he hadn’t heard from her since sometime in the middle of the summer. Maybe that was because he had been on the sharp side when he’d told her that he’d call if the investigation into her sister’s disappearance made any progress. There had been no need to take that tone, and the moment he had hung up, he bitterly regretted his abruptness. All the same, he had been no less frustrated than she was that the investigation had ground to a halt. But she had been pushy, asking the same questions over and over again, and hinting that the police – which included him – were failing to do their job. He understood – knew that these reactions were normal for relatives of victims of violent crime when a case didn’t come to a neat conclusion, so he should have been more patient through all the phone calls, paying no heed to her implied criticisms. But there was something about Áróra that upset his usual balance. Her presence had such an effect on him that he wasn’t in complete control. He was as nervous as a teenager around her.

  ‘My dear Áróra, there have been no developments,’ he said as he picked up, using his gentlest, warmest tone.

  ‘I know,’ she replied after a moment’s hesitation. ‘You said you’d call if there was anything new.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Unfortunately, nothing new has come to light. Which is why I haven’t called.’

  ‘I’m calling about something else,’ she said, and his heart tripped an extra beat. ‘I need some advice, and it’s urgent.’

  Daníel stood up and went along the police station’s corridor and down a flight of stairs to where he could stand on the landing and look out of the window. Having a view helped him concentrate. Activity around the gate below the window had the same effect as a fish tank, with patrol cars coming and going as smoothly as goldfish, giving the impression that life continued as usual although not much was actually happening.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not something I can really talk about over the phone,’ Áróra said. ‘An acquaintance of mine needs some guidance on a very serious matter, so I was wondering if you could meet us? Maybe at a café?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Daníel said, wanting to ask more but holding himself in check. ‘When?’

  ‘Now?’ Áróra said, and there was a note of hopeful expectation in her voice.

  He felt he owed it to her to respond quickly, and doing so would assuage his own bad feelings too, but he also felt a tingle of excitement running through him at the thought of meeting her.

  ‘OK. I’ll come right away,’ he said, and thought he could hear her sigh.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and he could hear it again, a sigh of relief. There was clearly something troubling her deeply. ‘And Daníel?’ she added. ‘Could you come completely incognito, no police car and no uniform?’

  Daníel hurried to the changing room and opened his locker. Áróra had suggested meeting in forty minutes at a café down in the Grandi district, so he had an opportunity to smarten himself up. Not that he looked scruffy. He had taken a shower that morning, but hadn’t bothered to shave, and he wasn’t about to meet Áróra with grey stubble on his face. He pulled off his shirt, stood at a basin and mopped his armpits with the damp corner of a towel. Then he soaped his face, shaved, splashed on a generous amount of aftershave and an equally liberal helping of deodorant. Then he put on a clean T-shirt from his locker, wound the scarf his son had given him around his neck. He picked up a dark grey blazer and set off down the station stairs, his heart full of expectation.

  7

  It had been with reluctance that Flosi had gone to the café, determined not to give his name. An hour later, however, he had handed over to this detective his name, address, phone number and his national ID number. With that, a formal investigation into Guðrún’s abduction was in progress. That was what the policeman had called it: abduction. He had explained to Flosi that he and his colleagues could investigate and monitor developments without any indication that the police were anywhere nearby. He had mentioned plain-clothes officers in an unmarked car.

  Flosi had finally agreed to all this when the detective had asked what he would do if Guðrún was not freed on payment of the ransom.

  ‘What are your options then?’ the policeman had said. ‘Suppose you pay up and they demand more money?’

  That had been the breaking point for Flosi. He crumbled and wept in front of the policeman and Áróra as he realised exactly the position he was in. He was not in control of anything. He was in the grip of ruthless criminals; following their instructions and not going to the police would force him into a completely hopeless position. By working with the police he would at least have a few cards to play with.

  The policeman put the ransom note in an envelope and said that the forensics division would check it for fingerprints and for any clues in the ink, and would examine the wording carefully. Once Flosi had dried his tears with the serviette Áróra handed him, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed him crying and then taken a deep breath, he sat up straight in his chair as if he was back in the managing director’s seat at Garðvís ehf and looked the policeman in the eye.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked, and the policeman calmly went through the list, as if he was just an obedient staff member at the wholesaler, outlining the initial steps and sketching a rough plan. It all made it sound like he knew what he was doing.

  ‘Now I’ll go back to the station and file the case, set up an undercover team with discreet facilities and Áróra will accompany you home,’ he said. ‘Later today I’ll come to your house, in plain clothes and carrying a cake in a box, as if I’m an old friend stopping by for coffee.’

  A moment later they were all on the pavement outside, and Flosi set off towards Áróra’s car, turning just in time to see her and the policeman smile at each other. Going by the warmth of the smile and the look that passed between them, it seemed they were having difficulty taking their eyes off each other, and it was obvious that they either knew each other well or wanted to know each other better. Flosi felt the anger swell inside him. Flirting like this was totally inappropriate considering his wife was in mortal danger somewhere. He had no desire to be reminded of other people’s love lives.

  ‘That’ll do!’ he called out to them, startling Áróra, who jogged towards the car, while the policeman didn’t seem remotely perturbed by his impatience and took the opportunity to follow Áróra with his eyes, a look on his face that Flosi wouldn’t have tolerated if she had been his daughter.